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Well, when I had thought it well o’er, I did determine to say naught to th’ lass whatsoever; neither did I; but meseems I was bound to o’erhear heart-breaking words atween somebody, for th’ very next day, as I was henting th’ style as leads into th’ lane (thou knowest the lane I mean, comrade: ‘t lies atween Cowslip Meadow and th’ pool i’ th’ hollow–Sweethearts’ Way, they call ‘t)–well, as I was getting o’er th’ style–as I had just got me o’er by one leg, after this fashion, ye mind; as though this chair here were th’ style, and yonder chimney-place th’ lane–Sweethearts’ Way, ye mind–well, as I was half over, and Mumble, th’ turnspit pup, half under, as ’twere, I heard voices–voices, comrade–one o’ them th’ voice o’ that lass o’ mine, and t’other th’ voice o’ young Hacket.

“Here be a coil,” say I. “What’s to do?”

Now the pup seemed to be filled with the spirit o’ th’ Lord all on a sudden, after th’ fashion o’ th’ talking jackass i’ th’ Scriptures; for if a didna talk a did th’ next thing to ‘t–a tried to. And after pulling at my heels like as though a fiend had got him, a scuttles into th’ thicket, for no cause, as I could see, but to give me th’ benefit o’ example. So in goes I after him. Scarce was I settled, with a bramble down th’ back o’ my neck, and some honey-bees at work too nigh to my legs for my peace o’ mind, when they come, and both a-chattering at th’ same time like two magpies with slit tongues.

“Thou didst!” quoth he. “That did I not!” quoth she. “Thou didst, and I can prove ‘t on thee!” quoth he, louder than afore. “I tell thee I did not, and thou canst sooner prove that Bidford Mill turns the Avon than that I did!” quoth she. “Wilt thou stand there and tell me i’ th’ eyes that thou hast so oft looked love into,” quoth he, like a man choked with spleen–“I say, wilt thou, Keren Lemon, stand there and face me, Robert Hacket, and say thou hast ne’er given me reason to believe that thou didst love me?” quoth he. “No more cause than I’ve given to twenty better than thee!” quoth she. “Shame on thee to say ‘t, thou bold-faced jig!” saith he; “shame on thee, I say! and so will say all honest folk when I tell ’em o’ ‘t.” “An thou tell it, the more fool thou,” saith she; and a draws up her red lips into a circle as though a’d had a drawstring in ’em, and a stands and looks at him as a used to stand and look at her dam when she chid her for a romp. Then all on a sudden, with such a nimbleness as took away my breath and drove all thoughts o’ brambles and honey-bees clean out o’ my pate, he jumps aside o’ her, and gets her about th’ middle, as he did that day under th’ pear-tree, and quoth he, “Lass,” quoth he, “dunnot break my heart! dunnot break th’ heart that loves ye more than a’ that’s in the earth, or th’ heavens above, or th’ waters below! Say ye love me, and ha’ done with ‘t.”

Then gives she up herself to him for one beat o’ her own breaking heart, the poor madcap, and she leans on him with all her pretty self, as though begging him to take her against her own will, and then a cry breaks from her, half human, and half like th’ cry o’ a hurt beast, and she saith,

“Shame on ye, shame on ye, to forsake th’ lass ye ha’ sworn to wed! Get thee back to her straightway, or ne’er look me i’ th’ face again!” And she leaps back from him, and points with her arm–as stiff and steady as th’ tail o’ a sportsman’s dog–towards th’ village, and she saith again, “Get thee back to her; get thee back to Ruth Visor, and wed with her ere this month be out o’ the year!”